The Scarlet Cord

by Eliza Master

  “It’s super dusty, and infested with giant spiders,” Kenny continued. “Sorry I didn’t tell you before. Didn’t want to scare you.” Renata wasn’t squeamish in general, thought she wasn’t sure she liked the idea of giant spiders.

  “How big are they?”

  “Up to ten inches.” Kenny was smiling, like he was teasing a sibling, and Renata thought he might be making the whole thing up. “And they bite, too. Yup, they come up through the plumbing to eat mice and stuff.”

  “Yuck,” she mumbled. Renata wouldn’t let Kenny scare her with his tales of gargantuan arachnids, though. She was his superior. She resisted the urge to type in “giant African spiders” and clicked to the next page instead.

  Images of red bark in chunks, clean and dry, and some small piles of bark powder popped up. “Yeah, that’s the stuff they want. The natives know where to get it,” Kenny commented. Renata saw a picture of a man standing in the forest, a deep jungle-green area with wild vines. He was standing on a road made only from tire tracks. The earth was orange like cantaloupe.

  The bark from the tree was what Fitzer was after to make the sildenafil. Unfortunately, without bark, the tree would die, and the tree took ten years to reach maturity; thus there were no yohimbe farms. That was Renata’s mission, to start a successful farm and sell the bark to Fitzer.

  Renata needed a bodyguard because of the unstable political climate of the region. Agri-Gen had made her sign a release that they were not responsible for her safety, though they assured her that Yakadouma wasn’t volatile, just poor. Nearby were small, armed factions that fought each other for control and leadership, but they didn’t come into the city. Fitzer didn’t want to risk propagating yohimbe in Cameroon, so their plan was to cultivate it in a friendlier environment.

  Renata read on, wishing she had enough made time to get all this background beforehand. The webpage said that yohimbe wasn’t naturally rare, but natives of the region harvested the bark and depleted the natural resource. For income, men or women would sojourn for several weeks of camping and ranging around the forest, usually working alone. They would peel the bark of three or more trees until they filled a burlap sack. The sack would be carried, sometimes for weeks, to the nearest road to await a buyer. Sometimes they’d sit for days waiting, eating very little. That was where Fitzer came in.

  Renata opened the documents from Agri-Gen and reread the overview that summarized some information on her current situation. Fitzer’s company, Elite Taxi, used vans and small busses to round up the yohimbe bark. The drivers knew the region and traveled with a Fitzer test kit to make sure the bark was potent. Sometimes the harvesters would cut it with more benign red bark, so the kits were necessary to make sure the supplies were pure. Bargaining for the best price, the taxi drivers were permitted to keep any money left from the standard pound price. This was a good job to have, and the drivers did well by bargaining down their countrymen. The problem was that the drivers were inconsistent on supplying Fitzer, and many were not trustworthy. Some taxis even went missing.

  Research was subbed out to Agri-Gen, and Fitzer’s goal was to create a sustainable Yohimbe farm in the Santa Lucia area of Guatemala. The climate matched, and the local people would welcome any industry. The price was right as well, especially since the government had agreed to a fixed sum lease for fifty years. They’d start with a 2000-acre tract that was already being prepared for planting, three quarters to be seeded and one fourth assigned to stump re-grows, the idea being that the stumps of the Yohimbe could re-sprout and grow new trees. Even though stump growth would reach maturity later than the seedlings, there was some possibility that the bark would be more potent. This trip was to familiarize Renata with the crop and to make connections for obtaining seeds and stumps to ship to Guatemala.

  5

  Her Weapons

  Transferring to the small plane for Yakadouma was a blur. Renata and Kenny were mutually non-communicative. Renata longed to commune with a bed alone. She was so tired. The bush plane took off, carrying only two pilots and the Americans. The plane was old but solid, and it reminded Renata of her adopted parents’ suburban. From above, the landscape was pristine: all emerald forest, red earth, and soft hills. The village was pretty, and the dust was invisible from the airplane. The flight took just 40 minutes, and they landed uneventfully in dusty Yakadouma, where Kenny drove a truck to their residence.

  The house was basic, with two bedrooms, a bath, and the semblance of a kitchen. Other than the beds, the only furniture was a pink Formica table circled by four rusty chairs with seats of cushioned plastic. Kenny rolled Renata’s luggage into the larger of the two rooms, the one that faced away from the street. It was mid-morning. After a brief check for spiders, she lay down and slept deeply.

  When Renata awoke, it was dusk. The first thing she saw was the skeleton of a car, its bones covered with vines and dust. There was dirt in the back, and a few blades of grass were choking through. There was a large tree sheltering the house; its leaves swayed in the gentle breeze. Renata was hot and sweating. She still felt dirty from traveling so far, and she headed for the bathroom. The shower stall had been recently repainted, perhaps just a few days ago, but it looked like someone had done so without cleaning it first. Nevertheless, the lukewarm stream rinsed off the long travel. The warm scent of coffee wafted into the bathroom. Renata dressed quickly, pulling off the tags of her new clothing.

  Kenny was pouring out two cups of the dark brew as she emerged. The coffee was rich and less acidic than the American grinds Renata was used to. She rolled the liquid over her tongue, letting the caffeine awaken her.

  “Hungry? There’s a bar nearby. We can get dinner,” Kenny said. He was cleaning and reloading his gun while sipping from his mug. Renata wondered if she should bring her Pitbull when they went out. Was it so dangerous that they needed guns?

  Kenny probably assumed she had brought the Taurus PT22 he had gifted her last week. She wondered where he got it. Was it the kind of gun bought at a pawn shop? The gun was not new; in fact, it was practically an antique.

  The .22 Taurus was lower caliber, and it didn’t compare with the automatic ease and strength of the Pitbull-DAO. Nevertheless, Renata liked the Taurus. It had charm. Graceful and petite, the gun was uncommon and strictly feminine. A nickel finish with gold accents complemented a pink faux-wood grip. It was the kind of gun Foxy Brown would have carried. She felt like a movie star when she handled it.

  She wondered what Kenny had been thinking when he bought it for her. It was a man’s idea of what a woman should carry. He probably thought it was a sexy gun. The problem was that the pretty gun was slow and hard to trigger. Her pointer finger was sore after a session at the firing range, and she wondered whether it would really be able to put down an attacker.

  Renata was serious about her weapon. She wasn’t playing; she wanted real protection, which was why she’d chosen the Pitbull. The revolver held five rounds, with the barrel measuring at only 2.3” long. She’d had to special-order the rimless piece that was fitted with a DAO hammer. DAO meant double-action only. A pull of the trigger, and the gun hammer would flip to the cocked position, while the cylinder rotated in another round. Successive shots could be fired with only her pointer finger, with no need to manually re-cock between shots. There was no tension with this weapon. It was smooth.

  She remembered her last visit to the firing range. As Renata stood focused on the paper target, she’d listened to Rihanna on her headphones, firing without pause to Shut up and Drive. Vibrations coursed through her body even though there was almost no recoil. Renata’s forearm and left hand had grown visibly stronger since she had been going to the range regularly.

  She always wore camouflage apparel to the range, like the guys. Her mesh top and spandex leggings whisked off the layer of moisture that condensed on her skin. Sneakers and a beanie completed the uniform. She matched the décor of the gun playground. Renata always chose the stall farthest from the door, so no one would bother her w
hile she was shooting.

  Because she couldn’t resist, Renata had bought herself a bulletproof dress online. It was named Cleopatra. She never wore it to the range, but occasionally she wore it out. She told herself it was just for practice, but really it was a turn on. She wore the dress, with the Pitbull in her clutch, on dates or even to work functions. Knowing that the pretty garb was stronger than all the furniture, floors, and walls of the building made Renata feel secretly invincible. Even steel rebar was made of weaker bonds.

  6

  First Night in Cameroon

  Kenny finally reassembled his gun. The coffee pot was empty, and Renata felt charged and ready to experience Yakadouma. The weather was cooling off, and she was starving. Renata stood up and grabbed her purse. She marched into her room and put the loaded Pitbull inside it.

  After locking the house, Kenny opened the passenger side truck door for Renata. There was a tiny squeaking as he moved, and Renata noted his bulletproof vest under the flannel he was wearing. As well, he had his gun with him, visible in its holster.

  “You’re wearing a vest?” she asked.

  “Yep, standard protocol. Have to. It’s hot; be glad it’s me, not you.” Kenny looked at her short sleeves enviously… or was he checking out her cleavage? “But it’s totally safe here. Don’t worry,” he said.

  Kenny drove down the dirt road until they hit some paved streets. There were lots of people walking in the streets. Renata saw a woman wearing a bright yellow and green outfit with a matching hair wrap. She was holding the hand of a little girl wearing an Old Navy T-shirt. A teenager sat calling to the crowd on a broken stool in front of a pyramid of potatoes.

  Kenny turned off the main drag. He made a couple of turns and parked in front of a restaurant. There were tables under a canvas tent attached to a crumbling building with open garage doors. They took a seat at a wobbly table. It looked like a band was going to play on a small stage in the corner. Everyone ignored them, even though they were the only white people in the restaurant. It didn’t feel hostile; more like a plain disinterest. The other customers were busy talking and eating.

  Soon a young man came to the table and spoke, obviously taking their order, but Renata couldn’t understand a word.

  Kenny did, though. “Chicken okay?” he asked her.

  “Sure,” Renata replied. “What language was that?”

  “Actually, for here, that’s English.”

  Renata was disappointed that she couldn’t understand the dialect. What kind of English was it? Maybe she should have taken a lesson or something. At least she had Kenny as a translator.

  Dinner was fried chicken with no sides – just chicken on a plate. It was spiced unfamiliarly, but it tasted good. Soon both plates held only bones. The band began to play African Highlife music.

  The waiter brought two large beers to the table. Kenny exchanged friendly words with the man, and then they embraced like old friends. This must be Kenny’s regular dinner spot, Renata thought. Two more beers arrived, which Renata hadn’t seen Kenny order. But in any case, the beer tasted amazing and went down like water. She was feeling fabulous. A lovely ebony woman came over and exchanged a few words with Kenny, and with a nod to Renata, he rose and moved into the tight crowd of dancers.

  Soon, a tall, handsome man asked Renata to dance, and she accepted. The happy tapping beat made her feel good, and the man was very polite, even though she couldn’t understand him. Soon she was dancing with another man, and then another pretty lady joined them. She lost sight of Kenny, but she didn’t care. The African beer was really good. Renata didn’t feel drunk, just very happy. The night was young, and she was enjoying the cheerful music.

  Finally, the band quieted, and the dancers dispersed. Renata had no idea what time it was. She had forgotten to put the SIM card in her phone, so it still read 10:31 a.m. – San Francisco time. Where was Kenny? He had the keys to the car, and they were technically at work, after all. He was her bodyguard and guide; he wasn’t supposed to disappear.

  Renata plopped down at their table, which had been cleared. The waiter came around. She nodded at him, and he returned with another full glass of beer. She was ready to go home, though. Jet lag was hitting hard, and she almost put her head on the table to rest. It was now 10:44 San Fran time, and still no Kenny. This job was paid for by Fitzer; should she complain to them? Or Erik?

  Kenny finally returned. “Ready?!” Renata asked, exasperated. Kenny’s undershirt was showing over his belt, and the bulletproof vest had ridden up his flannel. Had he just gotten laid? What a dweeb.

  “We need to pay,” Renata reminded.

  “I took care of it.”

  Renata had not seen any money exchanged, though, which struck her as odd.

  7

  Wild Yohimbe

  The next morning was a two-hour drive in the pickup to meet the driver of the Elite Taxi minibus. The driver pointed at some yohimbe trees at the side of the road that had been de-barked. Pointing at a shaved tree, he proclaimed, “Dead.”

  Someone should probably tell them that taking all the bark kills the tree, Renata thought. She then realized that, of course, they knew that already. There were mature yohimbe trees by the roadside as well. The driver explained, and Kenny translated for Renata – there was a fine if you were caught de-barking mature yohimbe, so the ones by the road were left intact and alive. Renata wondered what the state of the trees inside the jungle was.

  Most of the day was spent bumping along dirt track in random directions. It was lush but hot, and noisy mosquitos periodically invaded the taxi.

  A big black fly landed on Renata. “Ow!” she cried as it bit her. Then a swarm of black flies surrounded the taxi, several entering the taxi. Everyone shut the windows quickly, and Kenny hopped around the van slapping them to death with the driver’s flip-flop. “Tse-tse fly,” explained the driver. She hoped the bite wouldn’t give her a disease.

  Renata rode shotgun and began feeling carsick. A small red mark developed on her leg where the fly had bitten her. She noticed they drove down many roads only to U-turn and retreat. All the roads had the same red dirt and were banked by big trees covered in vines. Kenny and the driver sat quietly; they were hunting for yohimbe bark collectors.

  As they rounded a bend, a man jumped up and flagged the taxi. He was standing by his burlap sack, just as Renata had read about. The man spoke with the driver, but once again Renata couldn’t understand the words. Kenny did, though, and nodded his head along with the driver’s negotiations. The driver kept looking at Kenny for approval. This was definitely the first time he had brought foreigners along.

  After this encounter, they met others on the roadsides. All the harvesters were young men, some bargaining fiercely for their bark. It was mid-afternoon when the taxi was finally done with its rounds. In the back sat fourteen full sacks of the valued commodity, which would be delivered to a ship that would transport it to New York, so it could make its way to the Fitzer compounding plant. The driver dropped them at their pick-up truck and continued on to the harbor.

  On the return drive, Renata contemplated the yohimbe and its native environment. The plant preferred a canopy for sprouting, and then more direct sun after the stalk reached about a meter. She saw that in the jungle, the larger yohimbe trees had pushed back some of the undergrowth to get more light. If she got the same sandy soil from Cameroon with good drainage, and had a similar environment, she could reproduce it in a crop form. She could cover the immature trees with landscape fabric to mimic the jungle canopy. That could work for the yohimbe seedlings. The other growth option would be from living stumps.

  Kenny had negotiated for a few stumps to be dug up and brought to the house later by a driver so that Renata could have a look at them. Five packaged specimens were dropped at the door while Renata was showering. She came out as Kenny was handing the man a beer and a pack of Marlboros. Both men lit up cigarettes and smoked quietly a small distance away from the house.

  Renata examined the
stumps that were piled on the ground. They were all about two feet across and had at least that length of root underneath. As the bottoms were wrapped and roped in canvas and jute, Renata untied one and stooped over it. She looked closely at the stump and thought of the tall trunk that must have been attached to it recently. The wood was not dense, but dark with wide rings. It smelled a little spicy, like curry. Cameroon will be losing a lot of trees, Renata considered, but they’ll have been paid well. And this would ensure the tree would not become endangered. In fact, the number of trees on Earth would increase as a result of to Agri-Gen’s propagation project.

  “I’m taking those to the dock,” Kenny said abruptly, interrupting her train of thought, and then returned to the doorway like a watchdog. He needed to figure out how to have a private phone call with Tim about getting Renata’s tissue sample, and he wanted to go over the exact procedure again. Renata will probably want to go to town with me, and invade my privacy, he realized. He had to find a way to be alone. He placed a large stump on the passenger seat.

  Renata was startled by his gruffness. Was he upset that she had unbound one of the stumps? With skilled fingers, Renata retied the stump with a simple knot. She headed to her room to get her purse while Kenny loaded more stumps into the back of the pick up. Opening the passenger door, Renata saw the stump Kenny had loaded on the seat.

  “You don’t need to come. I got this,” he said.

  What is his friggin’ problem? she steamed inwardly. And what was she supposed to do? Just hang out at the house and wait for him?

  “Fine!” She slammed the truck door and headed back inside. Kenny pulled off, and then Renata was alone. Let him run the errands. She was tired of his stiff manner and being watched all the time anyhow. She put on water for some delicious afternoon coffee, and got out her tablet to continue reading Prodigal Summer. Some space was just what she needed. She let down her guard and slipped into the world of literary characters. It was dark when Kenny returned.